CLARITY: Symphony
by Hellen Highwater
Summary: Bruce Wayne finally grieves. Oneshot, no pairing. Not a song fic.
1. Chapter 1

**CLARITY:**

SYMPHONY

…_the orchestra found its voice again, joining slowly…_

Bruce "Brucie" Wayne was a fop. A womanizer, a playboy, a rich idiot. Call him what you will. Leave him alone and he was harmless. He'd never achieved anything great on his own accord, had (wisely) left the running of his company in the hands of much more competent men. Charming enough, but stupid. Ignorant.

He was a philanthropist, when he felt like it. Often, really, because it seemed Brucie was always starting some new charity in honor of some poor nobody that had lived (and likely died) in total obscurity until Brucie Wayne found out about him. There were rumors that Brucie had once paid for the entire police department to get new body armor because he'd nearly gotten mugged, once, and a cop had stepped in. Sometimes his charity flavor-of-the-month was a weird one, and his idiotic friends with their well-stuffed wallets thought it was a great game to invest in Brucie's bizarre charities. To them it was a game, but it wasn't to Brucie. He took charity seriously-and it was the _only _thing he took seriously. He also had the unusual tendency to find the great men who were scattered among his fellow wealthy airheads like so many diamonds among lumps of coal. It was the deep dark secret of Wayne Enterprises' success-Brucie Wayne had a talent for finding great men, (even though he wasn't one) and knew that great men belonged on his payroll. Or at least on his guest list.

He was also a great actor.

Not that Gotham knew this. All they saw was Brucie, immature billionaire. The perfect mask, never cracked, never discarded. Never when it mattered. The mask was flawless. No one would ever even begin to suspect that the perpetually dazed, superficially handsome face of Brucie might disguise the buzz-saw mind of the Batman. And that was what made it such a good mask.

There was only one time when Brucie Wayne had done something that involved actual effort on his part, and it went deliberately unnoticed in the public eye. His single act of 'work' was totally out of character for the useless heir, so he required silence from everyone involved.

And this deep secret, this silenced act which defied the entire existence was this: Brucie Wayne was a composer.

Well, sort of. He'd written only a single song, but oh, what a song it was!

Reginald Housing was the conductor of the Gotham Symphony Orchestra-a very prestigious position. But he knew well where his funding came from, so when Bruce Wayne told him that he'd written a song, Reginald resigned himself to deafness, for the musical renderings of an untrained idiot would surely cost him his hearing.

He'd been surprised when the billionaire handed over a sizeable stack of sheet music-he'd half expected the young man to just start humming, or something. So he took the sheet music, went over to the baby grand piano which dwelt in his spacious office, and began to pluck out the melody. To his surprise, the song sounded quite good. He brought his left hand to the keys and added harmony, brow furrowing as he threw himself deeper and deeper into the symphony. There were layers and layers of melody and counter melody, competing rhythms, and an underlying tone of sorrow so strong it almost hurt his hands to play it. But he flew through, reaching the end too soon, and letting the last notes die in the huge room. He sat still and silent for a moment, staring at the ivory keys, before turning his gaze to the young man seated calmly in a comfortable chair.

"Did you really write this?" he finally asked, knowing that it could cost him his job but needing to be sure.

"Yeah." the raven-haired twenty-something confirmed, frowning lightly, "It'll sound better with the full orchestra. It needs more than one voice to sound right."

"It's brilliant. A masterpiece. This is absolutely incredible, Mr. Wayne, and I'm not just saying that. Once this is released to the public, you'll be-"

"It's not going to be released to the public," Wayne said, sharper than Reginald had ever seen him. "The orchestra will learn it in closed practices, and play it to an empty house. It will be recorded, and one copy of that recording will be made. I'll keep that copy." He leaned back in his chair. "You'll be paid, of course, double your usual, as well as a sizeable bonus."

"But Mr. Wayne, this is amazing! It'd be a crime to keep it from the musical world."

Bruce smiled crookedly. "I'll have it released as part of my will. Until then, this will be a secret."

And because Wayne was the composer, and the owner, and Reginald was not a foolish man, it was.

It took the orchestra two weeks, focusing on Wayne's untitled work and nothing else, to prepare for the final 'performance'. Reginald felt that every rehearsal he found something new in the music, some fresh depth, a strain of emotion he hadn't felt before, a subtle melody he hadn't heard yet. It started simple and beautiful, a single flute in minor key accompanied by a violin part which required the precision of a surgeon and an alto clarinet line wrapping the melody in warmth. Overtones of cheer disguised an almost menacing rhythm shadowing the flute line. A tune borrowed from an old English folk song soon slipped in, supporting the melody quietly. Drums rattled in like rain, and a new harmony was added. This harmony was a distant mimicry of the theme from the movie _Mark of Zorro_, and while Reginald couldn't pretend to understand why, it fit in perfectly. The _Zorro _theme ended quickly, and while the original theme was dashing and mysterious, the adaptation Wayne had written was foreboding and grim. It faded slowly, consumed in the thunderous rumble of timpani, and the violin and clarinet dropped sharply after it, leaving the flute faltering and alone amidst the continuing onslaught of the brass section. The strings swept in, buffeting the lonely flute, and it quieted, silent at times, while the rest of the orchestra cried in impotent rage. But then the bells rang out, sharp and clear, and the flute danced up the scales in a following harmony, chasing the bells until it matched them perfectly, and the bells distanced themselves in subtle decrescendo, and the flute alone carried the melody again, high and clear, dripping silver notes like tears. The other instruments fell away, and only the flute sang, with the big bass drum throbbing a heartbeat as the flute wept, wafting undertones like the whisper of wings. Then the orchestra found its voice again, joining slowly, this time harmonizing with the flute as one force, rather than fighting against it. The flute slowly receded to become merely a part of the whole, rising with the other flutes when they cried and flowing away as the violins took up the lament. Bugles called a final charge; saxophones shed grungy tears; the piano led a haunting dirge, each section taking its place at the fore of the melody before letting others take up the song of grief. Sometimes they all fell silent, not even echoes in the stillness, and other times the whole orchestra writhed in sorrow. The melody occasionally carried strains of the lines from the original violin and clarinet, but these were quickly lost again. One by one, the instruments were silenced. The strings and percussion were last to go, again accompanied by the single flute, which left a crystalline note hanging in the stagnant air before following the others into mute grief.

Every time they played, the orchestra was silent afterwards. With most songs, they would chat with their section mates, babble as they cleaned their precious tools, shuffle their sheet music. But this symphony, this _Lament_-Bruce had finally given Reginald a name for it, one so simple it seemed almost inadequate-was something different, something powerful and pure. There were few pieces which captured an emotion so perfectly as this did, and the emotion it held was so deep and permanent. Though Reginald knew none of them would ever break contract and talk about it, he knew that all of the musicians would remember this song for the rest of their lives.

_Lament_ was finally ready for recording. The control booth was set up, the orchestra arrayed onstage in full formal dress despite the fact that their audience consisted of only one person. Every instrument was tuned perfectly, every sheet of music neatly arranged. The best recording microphones money could buy had been placed carefully, run to a sound technician who would immediately burn the performance to a single CD before deleting it from his equipment's memory. Then each sheet of music would be gathered and shredded, and the composer would be the only one able to ever recreate his masterwork.

Bruce Wayne sat alone in the precise center of the seats, the darkness shrouding him from the eyes of the orchestra. Reginald offered him a nod before ascending the podium and raising his hands. He ticked off four beats to the poised musicians, and then the flute soared in the first strains of childhood memory.

Bruce sat back in his padded chair, and listened, and grieved.

**This is an entirely fictional piece of music (tragically) and I don't play any instruments, so forgive me if I misused any terminology. I am, however, a sound tech, so…that actually doesn't help me at all.**

_**Lament**_** is mentioned in another work in the series **_**CLARITY**_**, only briefly, but it's there. Go to my profile and look up **_**CLARITY: Similarities.**_

**Batman's not mine, of course, and I'm not sure where this fic came from or what it's supposed to mean. To those of you haters out there who would tell me that Bats isn't a musician, I would argue that he probably is. Music is a part of any classical education, and the Waynes could afford the best. Also, written music is comparable to higher level mathematics, which we all know Bats is amazing with.**

**Please review.**

**~Sylvr**


	2. Chapter 2

CLARITY:

SYMPHONY

…_the orchestra found its voice again, joining slowly…_

The circumstances of his death were irrelevant. Or, at least, what the public knew of his death was irrelevant, because the public didn't know him. Not really, not in any way that mattered. Bruce Wayne was merely a mask for the true man.

But what did matter-what mattered more than anything-was that he was dead. Gone, forever.

He would have probably been surprised if he'd known how many people missed him. Clark, of course; the boy scout was all but immortal. Barbara. Tim. Alfred had died years before, but Lucius Fox was still . The now-retired Jim Gordon.

Dick Grayson.

They'd had a falling out years ago, and parted ways. It was an irony, of sorts, that Bruce Wayne had created such a strong man, and in the process, made a man who hated him. It was hard to say what exactly they had argued about, but it came down to a fundamental difference of personality. For the first few years Dick had been hotly angry, but eventually he calmed down a bit and realized that no matter how much he disagreed with him, or how angry he got, Bruce Wayne was the closest thing to a father he had left, and that mattered. They never apologized or even brought it up again, but things thawed between them, and Dick started showing up at the Manor for Christmas. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than anything Bruce had hoped for.

And now he was dead.

Dick had power of attorney, and it was on his word that the safe in the top office of Wayne Tower was opened.

Inside was a thick folder, full of financial documents. There was a long, narrow black velvet box, and a smaller pair of ring boxes on top of that. A thinner folder at the bottom of the small safe contained the will, and beside that, a glinting silver disk.

The finances Dick didn't care about. He'd been living self-sufficiently for years now, and what Bruce did with his company was of no consequence to him.

He gently placed the rest of the contents of the safe on the massive mahogany desk from which his adopted father had guided Gotham. He didn't sit in the heavy black leather chair which still bore the contours of the dead man's frame, but stood beside it instead. Carefully, he lifted the ring boxes. Inside were an antique pair of matched gold wedding rings, a thick simple band, big enough for a hand as big as Bruce's own, and delicate filigreed one that could only have belonged to Martha Wayne. Engraved on Thomas Wayne's ring was the world "Always;" Martha's said "Forever."

He returned them to their boxes and laid them side by side on the polished wood.

The long velvet box contained a string of pearls. It was a short strand, some of the beads obviously lost, and those that remained were spattered with brownish stains and grime. Dick didn't touch them; he closed the box after a long moment and wondered how many endless moments Bruce had sat and stared at the bloody pearls his parents had been shot for.

He slid the disk into the player on the desk, hoping to distract himself. Slow classical music began, not something he recognized but familiar, as if he knew who it was about. It was heartbreakingly sad. Dick wondered what it was and why it was in the safe, but it had been unlabeled. Perhaps there was something in with the papers.

Feeling even worse than he had when he started, he picked up the thin folder. Dick flipped over the brown cover and slipped out the first handwritten sheet.

_Tim_, It read, _By the time you read this letter, I am probably dead or missing. If that is the case, then I would like to take this opportunity to tell you _

_Am I so much a coward that I would leave a letter to say what I was never brave enough to say to your face? There are many things between us that have long gone unsaid. I would like to believe that there is no need to say them; that both of us simply understand. _

_But perhaps I should not take that risk. Perhaps it is time to admit that I am the worst sort of coward and liar; to afraid to confess what I know to be true, and lying to myself about it. So I suppose I must take this chance to say what I could not say to your face. Because I could not say it to you, and it must be said._

_Tim._

_I know that I am not what you were meant to have, and that I am not what you asked for. You were born for a happy life. You should have been allowed to grow up with your parents. But we both know that sometimes things don't go like they should. I am sorry that I was so selfish to take you for myself; I could have found you a normal family to take you in and love you. To raise you to be a normal man. But I couldn't give you up. So I took you and made you into something I know you would never have chosen for yourself. And I am so ashamed of myself for that, and so proud of you, for overcoming the worst of my best intentions._

_I want you to know that. I am proud of you-all of you, Barbara and Jason and Tim and Cassie-and I know you will make the right choices, even when I don't agree with you. I love you all as my own children, even if you think I don't. I always have. I always will. I don't believe there's anything in the universe that can change that._

_But I am strong in all the wrong ways. I cannot say this to your face, so I will take the coward's way out and write it in a letter where you cannot ignore it. Where you cannot reply to me. I am sorry for this as well._

_I would tell you all to be safe and happy and to look out for each other, but I like to think that that, at least, does not need to be said. I would tell you to be strong and courageous and to never let anyone push you down, but I know that needs no words. You are all such better children than I ever hoped for-such better children than I ever deserved._

_So I will say this: _

_I loved you, I love you, I will always love you. I am proud of you. I believe in you. _

_Bruce._

The music slowly faded away, the office ringingly silent.

Tim slid down into the shadow of the chair, buried his face in his hands, and wept.


End file.
